


A study in feelings

by whenineternal



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Feuds, Jaehyun writes poems, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Gods - Freeform, Slow Burn, side pairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-27 17:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenineternal/pseuds/whenineternal
Summary: Jaehyun writes because it's what he knows how to do, and he loves Doyoung because he doesn't know how not to.





	A study in feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt #N-170 "[Roman mythology!AU] Venus' son, Jaehyun, has a crush. The thing is, it's on the youngest of Mars' sons, and there is no way their parents would let them date." (obviously, i took the option to use greek gods instead of roman)
> 
> whenever you see this (⚖) symbol, it means several years have passed, generally about a hundred years at least, which is fine because the gays are immortal anyway.

  
  


_an orange sunrise. the temperamental sea._

_yellow trees silhouetted against a grey cloudy backdrop._

_blue mountains. golden beaches. white surf._

_green fields of grass._

_forest plants reflected in a clear pond._

_they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder._

_but are there not things that are beautiful to all._

_some things that hold such unquestionable beauty,_

_they are without comparison,without fault._

_they are, in a word, perfect._

  
  
  


For all his agility and fleet-footedness, Yuta reads dreadfully slowly. As the sand falls in his rose-coloured hourglass, Jaehyun bites on his fingers and listens to the barely there sound of grains shifting as the seconds go by. Distant bird song floats through the open shutters, creeping through Jaehyun’s ears and making him long for someplace else. Someplace under the sun, a long stretch of emerald green grass, the great oak tree by the pond, the exact one he wrote about in his poem. 

Yuta’s foot bounces in the air, occasionally hitting the body of his chair, and the irregular thumping sound his bare heel makes disrupts the comforting thoughts in Jaehyun’s mind. 

“Are you done yet?” he asks, his voice fading when Yuta holds up a finger at him and bites his lower lip. Several more seconds pass as Jaehyun watches the back of Yuta’s head and awaits his judgement. 

To gather his thoughts or to spite him, Jaehyun honestly cannot tell, Yuta folds the piece of parchment in four and sits up properly in his chair before addressing Jaehyun.

“You know,” he says, sticking one finger in the air as if sensing the wind. “For someone who claims he knows nothing about love, your poems are awfully romantic.”

Jaehyun doesn’t reply, instead he bites his knuckles and looks imploringly at Yuta for a proper comment. He knows why this is so important, Jaehyun doesn’t have to remind him again.

“It’s good Jaehyun, it’s very good,” Yuta says at last, with a small, sympathetic tilt of his head. 

“But is it good _enough_?” he stresses, fingers fiddling with the leather straps on his wrists. A breeze blows through the room, fluttering the ivy hanging from pots in the ceiling and gently moving the locks of hair framing Jaehyun’s face.

“Jaehyun, they would not have granted you this honour if they didn’t think your poems were good enough,” Yuta does his best to soothe, taking Jaehyun’s hands in his and giving him his most beautiful smile. At this moment, it is not enough.

“But what if this _exact_ poem isn’t? What if it is lesser than what I wrote before? They could still change their mind.”

It makes Yuta sigh, a fond laugh lurking in the corner of his mouth. Yuta is so flippant and easy-going all of the time that Jaehyun forgets that he holds centuries more of knowledge and experience than he does. But he is reminded of it in moments like this.

“The scribes didn’t grant you a page in the Book of Apollo because they liked _one_ poem you wrote. They have seen it all, and they deemed your _skill_ worthy. So don’t worry.”

Jaehyun wishes he could listen, but he will always worry. It is the greatest scourge of his existence. 

When the courier doves came to tell him of the divine scribes grant, was the happiest day of his life. He had ran all the way to the largest oak tree in the forest and sat there all day, dipping his toes in the still pond and writing and erasing and writing again, not stopping even when the sun set and it got hard to see. When the moon stood right above him, he finally finished his poem and the pure joy it brought him was incomparable. 

But that was days ago, and ever since he put the spotless parchment on his writing desk at his return, the worrying feeling has grown from a niggling at the back of his head to a fear that clogs his throat and makes his palms sweat. 

“Come here,” Yuta says and tugs on his arm. The chairs legs creak and scream when Yuta hooks his foot around it and pulls Jaehyun closer by moving the entire chair he is sitting in. 

“We’ll do something else,” he goes on, not waiting for Jaehyun’s agreement before he turns him around by the shoulders and immediately sticks his fingers in his hair.

“What is your obsession with braiding my hair?” Jaehyun asks, huffing a little just for show. He can’t have Yuta believing he will go along with all of his whims and notions, it would be the end of his good reputation if that day ever came. 

“I want to have daughters, and you can bet I will be the best at braiding their hair when the day comes,” Yuta boasts as if he already had daughters with beautiful, long, braided hair. 

Jaehyun doesn’t mind, on the contrary having someone play with his hair, run their fingers through it over and over the way Yuta is doing, is quite nice.

“You can’t have daughters with Jungwoo,” he murmurs, eyes falling shut under Yuta’s expert ministrations. There is a minute halt, Yuta’s hands spasming then going still, but it doesn’t last long enough for Jaehyun to interpret it for something bad. 

“Yes, well. I don’t know if that’s even going to last,” Yuta says, undoing the entire braid and starting over again. 

“Besides, we’re gods Jaehyun. We aren’t exactly known for our monogamy.”

He’s not wrong. The mortals know their kind best for their many mostly failed mating attempts. Things like infidelity and untruth are second nature to most gods, who with their endless lives and limited patience are best described as fickle creatures. Jaehyun, as a son of Aphrodite, does not share the same loose relationship with love. 

“Minor gods,” Jaehyun counters, much later. Yuta hums and strokes his palm over the finished braid.

“So we learn by example. No one is saying the major gods are good, but we are not much better.” 

Yuta rises slowly, clasping Jaehyun’s shoulders firmly before he bends to press a kiss to the top of his head. He says no more as he walks slowly to the door, bare feet slapping gently over marble floors.

“Yuta,” Jaehyun calls, turning in his chair and setting his feet on the floor. “Do you love Jungwoo?”

Yuta turns back, standing in the doorway, and looks at him for a long while. And when he finally speaks, his voice is a soft whisper.

“No, no I don’t think I do.”

He leaves then and Jaehyun is left alone again to listen to the bird song in the distance as the sun’s beams come crawling over his balcony and into the room, warming his feet.

  
  


“Nice braid,” is the first thing Johnny says to him when they meet in the fountain garden by his house.

“Yuta?” is the second thing he says and Jaehyun’s smile is answer enough. Johnny is already playing, expert fingers running over the strings of his lyre. The soft music fills the courtyard, saturating Jaehyun’s ears with its gentle cadence. 

“I had him read my poem,” Jaehyun says once he has settled on the stone rim of the middle-most fountain, next to Johnny. He can’t help laughing a little when Johnny rests his instrument in his lap with a heavy sigh.

“Why won’t you trust in me when I tell you anything you write is good? I’m a son of Apollo, I know these things!”

It’s a joking argument they have had several times, but it is always fun to watch the tall, somewhat intimidating god hunch together and sulk. 

“Because you’re my friend Johnny! And you are much too biased.”

Johnny is still sulking, so Jaehyun reaches over and plucks a string on his instrument. As he anticipated, Johnny jerks back with an indignant sound that is far too high for his normal voice.

“Come on peaches, you know not to touch the goods!” He shields the lyre with his body, the small tortoiseshell instrument disappearing completely inside his significant embrace. He winks at Jaehyun and earns himself a slap up the back of his head for the double entendre. 

“Don’t you start flirting with me as well,” Jaehyun grumbles and brings his feet up on the fountain-edge, resting a cheek on his knee. Johnny, mercifully, doesn’t comment on his sour mood and instead resumes playing, plucking the strings in a slow, soothing melody. 

It’s nice to sit next to Johnny like this, to listen to the water falling in the fountain and the distant clamor of voices and the resonant sound of Johnny’s playing; hollow tones creating a dreamscape for Jaehyun to sink into. 

He doesn’t want to be ungrateful, or for anyone to think he is, but his life was much simpler a week ago when having his work written down in the Book of Apollo was merely a distant dream. When he could revel in the possibility and his own imaginations and not know the real weight it has left on his shoulders. That he wants to complain is unfathomable even to him; he should be happy that his most dearest wish has come true. Well, his _second_ most dearest wish. 

Jaehyun rises so quickly to his feet that Johnny startles, plucking a string harder than he should and creating a sour sound from his instrument. 

“I’m sorry Johnny,” Jaehyun hurries to apologise as he clutches the silken fabric of his chlamys closer around himself. “Your music is lovely to listen to, as always, it is just too … thought-inducing at the moment.”

He makes to leave, but Johnny hurries after him. Clutching his elbow and forcing him to slow, Johnny laughs and wraps an arm around his shoulders and leads him out of the fountain garden and into the busy street. 

“Then let us go somewhere else. To the market to challenge the children of Athena on their craft? To the gilded halls and watch the muse Terpischore in her endless dance? Or we could play hide and seek with the nymphs of the forest, that’s always fun.”

“To the arena,” Jaehyun interrupts and Johnny falls oddly quiet.

“Why do you want to go there?” he asks at last, his voice low and a little strained. Jaehyun expected as much. As a son of Apollo, Johnny definitely holds to his mother's side in the long-lasting feud between the goddess of love and the unspoken god of war, and of course Jaehyun does as well. But he is not blinded by it like so many of his siblings.

“I just do,” he says, just as quiet, biting his lip and praying to the Fates that Johnny will leave him be. Fortunately for him, Johnny has good sense and they walk the rest of the way in silence, Johnny’s arm around his shoulders a comforting weight. 

The arena is tucked away at the very bottom of the hill, in a rocky outcropping just above the clouds, and the somewhat damp air is much colder than the rest of Olympus. There are no flowers, barely any trees, only grey and brown stone and dirt, but it looks exactly like one would expect from the gods who frequents it. 

The children of Ares have little interest in things of beauty; they don’t wax poetry or string music, nor do they enjoy it like every other olympian. Their vocation is war, and nothing but it. And the arena is their training ground. 

This is far from the first time Jaehyun finds himself here, and it certainly won’t be the last. There is something about the risky dance of sword fights and the _twang_ of bowstrings that puts him at ease, soothing the rampant thoughts always fighting for dominance in his mind. While Johnny’s music stirs the pot of his mind, allowing his worries and fears to consume him, the sounds of the arena expels it all to the very recesses of his brain. 

“Why did you want to come here? Couldn’t we rather find Kun or someone?” Johnny says, pressing close to his side, but Jaehyun ignores him as right at that moment his eyes finally find the one they wish to see. 

Near the edge of the sandy oval, right below where they stand in the spectator ring, is Doyoung, youngest son of Ares and a prodigy of the twin blades. There has never been any need for Jaehyun to learn swordsmanship, or the bow and arrow, but watching Doyoung always makes him want to learn. 

The way in which he moves across the sand, circling his opponent, slashing and stabbing with both swords in perfect harmony, blocking and deflecting like the others weapons are nothing, like their strength is no more than a gentle breeze washing over him.

He makes it look like the most elegant dance, and Jaehyun is entranced by his every move. 

Doyoung’s long hair flies around him, held back from his face in a high ponytail the same as all his siblings, so smooth and glossy the sunlight glints off its surface. Jaehyun feels the familiar tug inside him, the urge to feel the softness of the coal black hairs, to feel them slip through his fingers like water. 

Doyoung lets out a wordless yell, pulling Jaehyun from his thoughts just in time to see the lithe warrior god seemingly take a step in mid-air to propel himself right at his opponent, cleaving his shield in half and pushing him flat on his back. Having successfully driven the other god out of the ring drawn in the sand, Doyoung takes a big breath and lets his swords fall to his sides. He won, just like every other time Jaehyun has watched him. 

Despite being the youngest among his many siblings, Jaehyun has seen him beat all but a few of them into the dirt with very little hardship, with strength that belies his deceptively slender body. 

He doesn’t quite know what set off this infatuation he has, that makes his heart miss a beat every time he sees Doyoung unexpectedly, and that makes him seek him out like this when his mind is in disarray. He remembers seeing Doyoung in the forest that first time, just walking, with the sun glinting off his hair like it is now, swinging a blade around him in a sharp arch. He looked beautiful and Jaehyun felt an instant attraction, most shallow and base, but oh so strong. He wonders still if that is what brings him back every time, the simple pleasure of watching Doyoung’s attractive face grow hard with concentration as he moves his body with easy grace. Jaehyun would like to think he is not so shallow.

“Brutal,” Johnny mutters beside him, his attention fixed on another spar happening in the very centre of the arena. When Jaehyun follows his gaze he easily understands his friend’s disgust. The two female combatants are soaked with blood, holding nothing back even in what should have been a friendly workout. It’s not the first time Jaehyun has seen a spar grow violent, tempers and foolish pride running rampant in the ring until someone goes down. 

“Barbaric,” Johnny mutters, putting an arm around Jaehyun like he always does when something has him on edge. Jaehyun has yet to puzzle out if it’s done to protect him, or if it is a means for Johnny to comfort himself. 

“Ruthless, savage, vicious,” Jaehyun chuckles and tugs on Johnny’s hand to lead him out of the arena. Doyoung has already left. 

“Laugh all you want Jaehyun, but that kind of fighting _is_ vicious, savage and barbaric,” Johnny’s voice is pitched low and Jaehyun rubs his thumb over his palm in a silent apology. It was foolish of him to bring Johnny here; his friend is much too sensitive to see the beauty in something as ferocious as combat. 

“You should go back,” he says softly, squeezing Johnny’s hand. “I want to take a walk, on my own.” 

When Johnny hesitates, Jaehyun pulls away from him, smiling apologetically when Johnny’s arm slips from his shoulder and falls lifelessly at his side. He can tell Johnny is disappointed, and Jaehyun feels a smidgen of guilt for dragging him all this way only to send him back right away. But Johnny listens, doesn’t question it and only leans over to press a kiss to Jaehyun’s cheek before he walks off, one arm stuffed inside his chlamys. 

Jaehyun watches until he is out of sight and then he sets off on his own, away from the path and in between the outcroppings in the rocky mountain. Up and up he climbs, until brown sand turns to green grass and the sweet honey scent of balsam poplar trees surrounds him. Once the ground evens out, he is winded, but the gentle trickling of a thousand small rivers rejuvenates him. Stooping to pull his sandals off, Jaehyun winds the leather straps around his fingers and throws them over his shoulder. The next step he takes splashes through a tiny stream, as does the next and the next and he can feel his mood begin to lighten as he dances through the water and tall grass. 

When trees stretch their branches over his head, he knows he is getting close. But he is having too much fun to worry about his destination, and what awaits him there. 

“You are far too loud,” a light, somewhat sour voice, disrupts the song in Jaehyun’s mind, halting him mid-step through a foot wide stream. 

“Did I disrupt your sleep, sourpuss?” he bites his lips to hold his laughter inside, and waits for the other god, the one he came to see, to finally open his eyes. 

Doyoung lies spread out amongst the streams, letting the chilled, wet grass cool his body. His upper body is bare and Jaehyun stares unashamedly. 

“I’m not a …” Doyoung pushes up on one elbow, blinking at Jaehyun as his face goes through so many changes of expression Jaehyun could never keep count. 

“I know,” he chirps, throwing his sandals into the grass and following soon after. Doyoung has yet to grow used to his teasing, but Jaehyun will continue to do so if only for how cute confusion looks on his face.

“I saw you in the arena,” he says lightly, trailing his eyes over Doyoung’s body again to check for any injuries that might need tending. There are a couple new bruises, but no cuts this time so Jaehyun leaves him be.

“And I saw you,” Doyoung hums, his eyes once again closed against the faint sunlight slipping through the foliage. 

“Your friend looked mighty happy to be there,” he ends the sarcastic comment with a short laugh. He can imagine all the thoughts Doyoung has already made about Johnny, all of them most likely similar to what Doyoung thought of _him_ the first time they met. But he doesn’t let Doyoung goad him into defending Johnny’s integrity. Any foul word Doyoung might say is always false.

“That was a nice move you did back there,” he says instead, pulling them onto even ground. Touching on the subject of their estranged parents petty feud is a steep, rocky hill and Jaehyun prefers not to tumble down it. 

“Thanks,” Doyoung says after a beat, voice slightly subdued. Children of Ares don’t work in compliments and cheers; doing bad warrants only snide comments, and if you do good you should always be able to do better. It seems a whole different world to Jaehyun, who needs the support of his peers to feel good about himself. It is part of why he and Johnny became such good friends; Jaehyun needs to hear he is doing well and Johnny never runs out of words to assure him he is. 

“You talk too much,” is the expected follow-up only seconds later. But getting Doyoung to accept the compliment is progress enough for now. They fall into silence, letting the sounds of nature fill the gaps where words are unnecessary. Doyoung isn’t much of a talker, and despite the warrior god’s continued insistence, Jaehyun isn’t either. 

As the sun slowly sets and the play of orange in the trees around them grows more intense, Jaehyun sits up and pulls his legs under him. Uncaring of the water seeping into his cloths when he sits down in a stream, he pulls the tie out of his hair and undoes the messy braid Yuta made of it. He can feel Doyoung’s eyes on him and keeps his own closed as he pulls his fingers through his hair so he can feel that intense gaze just a little longer. 

He is aware of Doyoung’s attraction to him, physical as it may be, as the older god never looks away when Jaehyun catches him staring. But he also knows that Doyoung would never act on it. Because they really should not. 

Knowing so, Jaehyun still doesn’t stop himself from reaching for the tie holding Doyoung’s hair together and pulling it free. And he doesn’t hesitate to slip his fingers into the long tresses, just like he imagined doing earlier. 

Doyoung allows the moment to stretch on, but it is no surprise to either of them when he eventually pulls himself away from Jaehyun’s hands and rises to his feet. He holds a hand out, silently asking for his hair tie back and the second his fingers wrap around the thin leather strip, he is gone. Jaehyun wonders how long it will take him to notice that the hair tie he got back is not the one he had before.

⚖

_It can reach and reach and never find a safe harbour to lay anchor,_

_And it is never equipped with the right harness,_

_And it has no safety net._

Jaehyun watches with a somewhat sick fascination as Yuta and Jungwoo falls apart right in front of him. He isn’t sure if they are aware of his presence, but Yuta knows he always has his morning meal in the garden, in between the pink carnations. 

The two are all the way on the other side of the enclosure and their words don’t reach him, but their voices ring in his head either way. 

_“We hardly see each other anyway,”_ he imagines Yuta saying. Jungwoo doesn’t live on Olympus with the rest of them, and Yuta, being a messenger of the gods, is never in one place for long. 

_“Because you never come to visit,”_ he guesses would be Jungwoo’s answer. Jaehyun can’t blame Yuta for that neglect though, he doesn’t want to visit the Underworld either. 

It doesn’t seem like either of them are too torn up about their relationship ending, their postures are too relaxed to carry any real anger or frustration. Yuta’s words from so many times before come back to him then; he doesn’t actually love Jungwoo. 

If he were to guess, he would say that they’ll spend a couple centuries ignoring each other and then everyone will pretend there never was anything between them to begin with. 

It’s the same thing that happened with Johnny and Taeil, they started speaking again on the last new moon, exactly one hundred and sixty years after they split up. 

It’s an inconceivable thing to Jaehyun, loving yet not really loving. _How can you love with your head and not your heart_ , he had asked Johnny once, after watching Taeil walk by them in the street as if Johnny was a complete stranger and not one who had known his most intimate details. The answer Johnny had given stayed with him and he remembers it now as he watches Yuta and Jungwoo share a last kiss before walking their separate ways..

_Sometimes you love with neither your heart nor your head, but with your body._

⚖

It’s a rainy day when he finally sees Doyoung again. No more than a drizzle, but it’s enough for his chlamys to be soaked through by the time he reaches the pond and the big oak tree. What has become their special place.

Doyoung isn’t there at first, but when he comes sauntering up the hill and the pale sunlight gleams off his hair, the wait turns inconsequential. It’s been too many moons since he last saw him. 

“You’re here,” he says, keeping his tone light. Sometimes talking to Doyoung is like befriending a skittish animal, and he is sure any loud sounds or sharp moves will chase him away. Doyoung looks troubled, his face is pinched like he’s in pain and his mouth is a thin, unmoving line. As if the fates had sewed his lips shut. 

“Are you alright?” Jaehyun asks. Feeling his heartbeat elevate, he swallows hard to rid his throat of that worrying feeling. 

Doyoung still doesn’t say anything, not that Jaehyun expected him to, but he turns just slightly, enough that Jaehyun can see the blood staining his right arm, still flowing from the open wound just below his shoulder. 

“You’re hurt,” he says, rising quickly so he can get a closer look. Doyoung startles, but keeps still as Jaehyun’s fingers ghost over his skin, uncaring of the blood painting them gold. 

“You walked all the way up here with this, you idiot,” Doyoung exhales harshly through his nose, obviously taking offense but Jaehyun couldn't care less.

“You _are_ an idiot,” he reiterates, looking into Doyoung’s eyes as sternly as he can manage before guiding the older god to sit down in the grass.

“If you had gotten this tied at the arena, I’m guessing that’s where this happened, I hope that’s where it happened, then you wouldn't have lost so much blood.”

He tears a piece of cloth from his tunic and douses it in a stream to soak it all the way through and uses it to clean up the blood spilling like molasses from the cut in Doyoung’s bicep.

“This is too much, you should be more careful,” he scolds when he can finally see just how deep the wound is, and how it stretches across the entire width of his upper arm. Doyoung tenses up, another harsh exhale escaping him and he opens his mouth for just a second before changing his mind. He never says much, but Jaehyun has a feeling it has more to do with fear of saying something he shouldn’t, than fear of saying anything at all. 

So Jaehyun will push, and in the end, most times, Doyoung breaks. 

“Mortals and mortal weapons may not penetrate our skin, but _we_ can still harm each other,” Jaehyun mumbles quietly as he dabs at the cut with the soft, damp cloth.

“Clearly we can,” Doyoung finally speaks, through gritted teeth, flinching at the sting.

“Wimp,” Jaehyun laughs good-naturedly, happy to break down the wall even just a little bit. Doyoung scoffs, once again offended.

“No one has ever called me a wimp,” he says and looks into the distance, far away from Jaehyun and his gentle hands. Jaehyun tears another strip of cloth from his tunic, uncaring of how ratted he must look already, and smiles secretly to himself.

“Then everyone else is wrong,” he teases and wraps Doyoung’s upper arm with the makeshift bandage. All laughter is stolen from his mouth when Doyoung turns his head, and in an instance they are so close Jaehyun can feel the other’s breath on his skin.

He leans in, there is no plane of existence where Jaehyun could stop himself, and Doyoung does the same until their lips almost touch. A breaths distance between them and the anticipation rises in him, causing butterflies in his stomach and palpitations in his chest and he closes his eyes and hopes for Doyoung’s mouth on his. But it never happens. 

Instead all he feels is the rush of air hitting his face and the abrupt rustle of grass echoes in his ears as Doyoung jumps to his feet and runs off into the trees. Leaving him alone once again. 

⚖

The thing is, Jaehyun shouldn’t even want to associate with Doyoung. Their origins demands it, their differences discourages it. Their parents feud is a long and respected one, even if no one remembers what started it, or knows why it still is. Jaehyun hasn’t seen his mother since he passed a hundred years, but his loyalty remains with her still, as it should. And Doyoung is a smear on his dedication, but he cannot bring himself to care. 

Not when Doyoung looks so beautiful in the spotted sunlight under the willow trees. Not when he moves so elegantly in a dance to his own music, with swords like dangerous arms flying precisely yet wildly around him. Not when his hair, so smooth and lustrous, is warm against his skin when all evidence suggests the opposite. 

And why should he, when being in Doyoung’s presence makes him _feel_. All the words he has written, of love and romantic figments he has never known, he feels them with Doyoung.

“Brother?” a soft voice from the olive trees breaks through his reverie. It takes him several seconds to find them in the dark of dusk, tucked against the wide trunk of the most fruitful tree, but he knows who it is from the cadence of their voice. 

“Jeno?” he lilts, holding out a hand. It has been so long since he has seen the younger god, the only one of his siblings who still calls him as brother. 

“I’m back,” Jeno says, taking his hand with surety yet he seems hesitant to come too close. 

“Yes, you’re home,” he smiles, tugging gently until Jeno finally sits down next to him, pressed to his side. 

“Home,” Jeno repeats, quietly and obviously to himself, and Jaehyun forces his smile to stay on his face. More and more in the last fifteen years, Jeno has gone down to the mortal world, shed his godly skin and lived amongst them like equals. Three seasons of spring has passed since the last time he stepped foot on Olympus, a mere blink in the eternal reign of life, but significant to that of a mortal passenger. And Jaehyun is worried.

He moves to run his hand through Jeno’s hair, but is hindered by a circlet of flowers he only now notices. Purple crocus tangled together with such clumsiness Jaehyun knows it couldn’t have been Jeno who made it. His Jeno; whose fingers are like gentle petals, and whose heart is made of pure gold.

“Jeno what have you done?” he despairs, feeling his heart drop from his chest as Jeno’s shoulders quiver with restrained sobs. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, gripping his fingers and pushing his knees together, making himself as small as he can in the grass next to Jaehyun. 

“There is a boy. He works the harbour and he, he’s _mortal_ ; his life is limited and his love for me finite,” Jeno barely gets the words out for how much his voice shakes and Jaehyun feels his insides grow cold. Only the greatest despair could make Jeno speak in verse.

“I love him,” comes a last whisper, like a tapering wind after a storm. 

It’s exactly as he has feared; his worst nightmare come to life. His eyes sting and he lets the tears fall. With only Jeno around to see, he has no reason to hide them. 

Pulling his little brother close into his arms and hooking his chin on the top of his head, he holds him, praying to the fates for mercy on Jeno’s soul. No one should be made to endure the kind of heartache he hears in every labored breath Jeno takes, and feels in every tremor coursing through his body. Least of all someone as kind and selfless as his little brother. 

His own heart breaks for Jeno, shatters into a thousand pieces for the desperate longing he will have to suffer, but also for himself, and the possibility that Jeno might not choose to stay. 

He is pacing the length of the shadows when Doyoung finds him. Bare feet splashing through the countless streams, hair in wild disarray around his face and body naked for the scant loincloth he retained for decency. His tunic he discarded somewhere by the oak tree, to soak in the cold water. 

“What happened?” Doyoung asks, and for a moment Jaehyun is so taken aback at his voice, the concern in it, and the very fact that he would initiate conversation, that he cannot find his voice. But then it all comes flowing out of him.

“Jeno has fallen for a mortal boy, a _mortal_ , whose life is already speeding to an end. And no matter what I say I can’t console him, no matter what I do I can’t rid him of the pain … I can’t help.”

Doyoung hums, eyebrows furrowed and mouth a little pinched. He probably doesn’t know how to help either. He walks closer, until their toes almost touch, and Jaehyun hadn’t noticed before that Doyoung is shorter than him, just a little but noticeable enough when they are this close. While Jaehyun holds his breath, Doyoung takes his hand and untangles his fingers from his hair tie. He still cannot breathe as Doyoung gathers his hair, curly and tangled and nothing like Doyoung’s silk-spun tresses, and ties it at the back of his head.

“Better,” he murmurs, and Jaehyun will blame it on their proximity making any louder sounds unnecessary. He looks into Doyoung’s eyes, studies their attractive, slanted shape and the deep brown colour of the iris, and feels warm under their intent stare.

Doyoung’s arms are around him, his fingers tying his hair in place, and Jaehyun has seen this moment in his mind’s eye a thousand times, and all he wants is to lean in and claim Doyoung’s lips for his own. But he doesn’t want Doyoung to run away again. 

So he holds still and enjoys the closeness, allowing only his eyes to trace the pretty curve of Doyoung’s upper lip. 

He startles when something blunt pokes his stomach, shakes the cobwebs from his mind when Doyoung steps back and holds a curved blade up in front of him. Jaehyun takes it without thought, absently rubbing his hand over his lower stomach where Doyoung had poked him with the rounded pommel of the sword.

“You come to the arena too much to not know how to wield a sword,” Doyoung says and Jaehyun revels in the tiny smile on the other’s face. 

“Adjust your grip,” Doyoung says then, keeping a small distance and only watching Jaehyun as he struggles to hold the sword properly. He smiles again when Jaehyun gets it, and even laughs when Jaehyun switches hands to hold the sword in his left hand, pointing behind him, like he has seen Doyoung do so many times. 

“Basics first alright?” he says and Jaehyun bites his lips to contain his joy. The whole world seems lighter now, simply because Doyoung smiled at him. 

⚖

_it simmers underneath your skin,_

_prickling and numbing and spreading by the second._

_sometimes it takes hold of your senses,_

_impairs your rationality, erases your empathy,_

_strangles your humanity._

_it runs red hot through your veins,_

_flows out in black violent rivulets_

_staining everything around you._

_it stains your hands,_

_your clothes_

_and the chair you are sitting in._

_it leaves a stain on your very existence._

It occurs to him one morning, sitting in the carnations and sipping on the most succulent grape wine, that he hasn’t seen Doyoung in years. Not in the arena, not wandering the market, not at any feast, and not under the oak tree in their secret garden. He goes there almost every day. It is blooming now, flowers of all kinds in places where before there were only grass and trickling streams. He has planted quite a few of them himself, others come from seeds spread on the wind and swallowed by fertile soil. 

But as the seasons have come and gone and the trees have grown taller, Doyoung has yet to return. He would be worried, except he already knows where he is. The mortals are warring, and the children of war are with them. 

“You’ll get wrinkles,” Ten’s playful voice murmurs in his ear, his thumb rubbing harshly over his forehead. He had all but forgotten about his presence. 

The son of Poseidon moves closer, the shells in his midnight hair clicking together, and Jaehyun holds his breath as his own hair is pushed aside and an eager mouth lands on his neck. 

“Whatever it is, I can make it better,” Ten murmurs, fingers tucking behind the belt at Jaehyun’s waist and teeth latching onto the lobe of his ear. It’s not an unwelcome approach, but the time doesn’t seem fitting. He would not be with Ten while his mind is caught on another. Instead he grants him only a kiss before freeing himself from his arms. 

“Not today Ten,” he says, laughing a little when his friend pouts and throws a grape at his face. It has been years since he saw Ten as well, years he has spent in his mother’s gardens while Ten explored the vastness of the sea to which he belongs. 

“You should come with me,” Ten says, like he has so many times before, “I’ll show you the sandy beaches and the mile high cliffs that _soar_ to the sky and plunge _deep_ into the sea. I’ll fuck you in the foaming surf on a wild water day.”

A branch snaps behind them, but there is no one there. Only twisting olive trees and the light of the dawning sun. 

“That sounds awfully romantic; are you trying to woo me?” he laughs and Ten smothers his own giggles in the crook of Jaehyun’s neck, tucking himself close to his side. 

“We would drive each other mad in less than a year,” he says and Jaehyun laughs in wordless agreement. Ten have always been best in small doses. 

“We are good together in other ways though,” Ten murmurs and Jaehyun’s laughter turns to breathless moans as the older god rubs against him and touches him over his clothes. He is right, they _are_ good together. They both give as good as they take, and there is nothing more exciting than that. 

He goes to the arena after, stumbling ungracefully down the long hill and by the time he reaches the bottom his feet and the hem of his tunic are gray with dust. It’s quiet, much more so than usual, and he almost doesn’t go inside but something compels him to. 

In the large oval space there is a lone figure, feet dancing circles in the sand, hacking at dolls of straw with reckless ineptitude. There is more emotion in the swing of Doyoung’s swords than he has ever seen in his face. 

He climbs the banister and hurries down the stairs and into the pit. Doyoung has yet to notice him it seems, and Jaehyun walks quickly over the orange sand to reach his side. With his approach he can hear every strained grunt that accompanies a downward slash, or sideways hack or heavy, forward thrust. Doyoung’s skin is glistening in the afternoon sun and his hair is matted and wet; he must have been here for quite a while. 

“You’re back!” Jaehyun calls when he is almost upon him and is promptly stopped in his tracks by Doyoung swinging around and pointing his sword at his neck. The very air stills around them, dust glinting in the sun as they remain frozen like a treacherous tableau. 

Doyoung doesn’t retract his sword, the sharp tip still barely touching the soft space under Jaehyun’s jaw, and he comes to realise it is entirely intentional. His presence had been registered, and his approach was obviously unwelcome. What he doesn’t understand is _why_.

“Doyong?” he voices, hardly daring to breathe as Doyoung’s hand never wavers. Another few seconds pass, Jaehyun can all but hear them tick by in his ears, and then Doyoung turns, spinning on his heel and retracting his sword in one move. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and Jaehyun barely catches it even in the dead air that surrounds them. He says nothing more, keeps his back to Jaehyun and acts like he isn’t even there. Jaehyun grabs his own throat, pressing against the spot where Doyoung’s sword had nearly pierced him and feels it sting when he swallows. There is no wound, but it hurts either way.

“You were gone a long time,” he says, trying to touch Doyoung with his words when he dares not do so with his hands. 

“I was busy,” is the curt response he gets. Doyoung is back to swinging his sword around, but now he has no purpose for it, only a means to keep himself occupied. 

Jaehyun looks around them, his whole body itching with distress, and he doesn’t think when he picks up the sword lying on the ground a couple yards from his feet. Taking a stance, he holds the sword up to Doyoung’s back and waits.

“You don’t want to do that,” Doyoung says, and his voice is darker than Jaehyun has ever heard it.

“I’m not in a good mood, Jaehyun,” he continues, and Jaehyun shivers at the sound of his name but hears the warning for what it is. He chooses to ignore it, knowing he will most likely regret it.

“We haven’t sparred in years,” Jaehyun insists and goes as far as to poke Doyoung’s leather-clad back with the tip of his sword. He doesn’t spar with anyone but Doyoung so odds are he will be rusty, and in those same years Doyoung has been fighting a war. There have always been a vast difference in their skill, but Doyoung has never wanted to use it against him and he can only hope that is still the case.

The thought has barely crossed his mind when he finds himself disarmed, Doyoung knocking his sword from his hand with a simple flick of his own. 

“Pick it up,” he says and points at the sword on the ground with his own blade, like this was any other practice session between them.

Jaehyun hurries to obey, but he barely has time to raise the sword up in front of him before it is once again knocked from his hand.

“Pick it up,” Doyoung’s voice rings in his ears, so cruel and twisted from his usual comforting timbre. This time he goes for the sword and pushes away instantly, knees turning in the sand as he spins away from Doyoung’s attack.

 _Good_ , is what he expects to hear. Doyoung’s one-worded compliment whenever Jaehyun evades or parries or blocks his sword. Instead all he hears is the click of a tongue and Doyoung’s feet shifting so fast in the sand he can’t see them move. This isn’t his Doyoung, not the silent companion, the friend or the mentor. This is the son of Ares, the one he has seen so many times in this very place, but has never gotten to know. He worries what brought this on, what he could have done to anger Doyoung, if he even did anything at all. He very much doubts it; but then what is the cause? The war, his mind whispers, drowned out by the resounding clang of their blades meeting. A second later, Jaehyun’s sword once again flies from his hand.

“Pick it up,” Doyoung commands, dancing backwards and stretching his shoulders. Jaehyun refuses.

“Pick it up,” he repeats and Jaehyun’s fingers itch to do as he’s told, to raise arms against Doyoung and fight him for whatever preconceived slight he has caused him. 

“Pick it up.” Jaehyun can hear the waver in Doyoung’s voice now, the slight hitch in his voice when he opens his mouth and the gritted way he speaks. His heart aches.

“I won’t,” he says, a soft whisper in the thick air that spans the distance between them. Doyoung’s entire body jerks, eyes blinking rapidly and his lips form something like a snarl right before his own sword falls from his hand and he leaps. He is right in front of Jaehyun, his eyes wild with emotion as he cups his face, tangles fingers in his hair and holds him still. It’s not unexpected, but rather long overdue, and this time Jaehyun keeps his eyes open, watches as Doyoung’s face comes close to his, the speed of all his movements laced with frustration, and Jaehyun takes a breath just before their lips almost meet. But they never do.

Doyoung stops himself at the last second, presses his forehead to Jaehyun’s instead, and exhales slowly. Jaehyun can feel his breath brush his skin and when a droplet of sweat rolls down his temple he can’t say if it comes from him, or from Doyoung. 

“Please,” he whispers, begging Doyoung to put them both out of this misery. He is hesitant to do it himself, even knowing more certainly now than ever before that whatever he feels for Doyoung is returned, he can’t make himself take the choice from Doyoung. 

“ _I_ _can’t_ ,” Doyoung says and turns his head so his temple presses against Jaehyun’s forehead and Jaehyun’s nose pushes into the softness of his cheek. 

“I’m going back down there, I just wanted to see you again. I’m sorry it happened like this,” Doyoung says, tone neutral and words clipped. He’s holding himself back, locking his restraint back in place after that momentary lapse. He is gone just like that, the last thing Jaehyun sees is the sun glinting off his night hair.

He can’t move. His feet are petrified to the ground and his heart is beating a mile a minute. He wants Doyoung, so bad. No matter how hard he looks, he can’t find anything that can equate to what Doyoung makes him feel. And no matter how hard he tries he can’t make sense of any of this at all. He doesn’t love with his body; they haven’t so much as shared a single kiss. And he doesn’t love with his head because it is screaming at him to let Doyoung go. But how can he love with his heart when the rest of him tells him not to? 

⚖

The flowers no longer fill him with joy. In the fertile earth of his and Doyoung’s special spot they continue to grow, covering the formerly bare stretch of land with more colours than he can name. But they grow for no one.

In the beginning he went there every day, sat against the tree and dipped his toes in the pond and wrote. Then months turned to years and his visits turned from daily to weekly, then to once in a moon. Thirteen years ago, he stopped going entirely. Doyoung was never there anymore. 

“Are you alright Jaehyun?” a quiet voice slips into his ear and Jaehyun turns his head a smidge to look out the corner of his eye at Jaemin, whose hands and feet as well as most of his clothes are stained purple.

“You stopped reading,” he says with a toss of his hair and Jaehyun can easily see why Jeno fell for a man like him. Their three other companions are giggling in the background, standing to their knees in squashed grapes and trying to push each other over. Jaemin may look no older than Jeno, or Jisung and Chenle, but he holds a maturity about him that Jaehyun isn’t sure he even has himself. Humans are forced to grow up so quickly, and while Jaemin no longer is a human, he still carries that growth with him.

“Sorry, distracting thoughts. Do you want me to continue?” he shakes his head and puts on a smile and Jaemin smiles blindingly back at him. 

“If you don’t mind, I like your poems,” he says and he waits for Jaehyun to open his leather-bound book once again before he steps back into his barrel of grapes. Jaehyun clears his throat and continues where he left off, holding the book open on his thighs with a hand splayed over the pages. His unoccupied fingers go back to fiddling with the ornaments in his hair, the few shells Ten had braided in it the last time they saw each other, and a faded, modest strip of leather no more than an inch long. It’s all he has left of Doyoung’s hairband, the rest has shrivelled away over the many years since he took it. 

He doesn’t really know why he keeps it, why he goes to the pain of tying it into his hair day after day. After so many years he shouldn’t feel so attached to it, but he can’t bring himself to throw it away.

_it leaves your world in shades of grey._

_sucks the colour from the flowers,_

_the song from the birds and the heat from the sun._

He reads. Tangles his hair in a tight fist to feel it hurt, releases it and brushes a tiny leaf from the page of his book. They keep falling. The trees are shedding, making room for new leaves, new flowers and fruits to grow. It’s not autumn, not like in the mortal world, but it’s a renewal, a time to get rid of the old and welcome in the new. Jaehyun doesn’t like the new development in his own mind.

_it leaves your fingers numb._

_and it claws at your heart,_

_tries its best to tear you down._

_it paints pictures in your mind_

_of things that never occured,_

_but it tries to convince you are real_

The wind picks up, only for a second, and rustles the pages and covers them with more tiny leaves, no bigger than the tip of his thumb. He doesn’t know where they are coming from and wonders how far they have travelled to reach him. Jeno’s laughter is loud in the air, the slushing of grape juice and the amusing, disgruntled lilt of a child nymph’s curses, sounds with it. Jaehyun looks up, at Jeno bowed over, laughing with his whole body, at Jisung contorting himself into something unrecognisable to keep his own laughter in check, at Chenle, flat on his butt in a bath of purple juice, at Jaemin laughing openly while stretching a hand out to help their clumsy friend on his feet. 

Jaehyun likes being in their company, even if they treat him like a pain sometimes, an overbearing overseer of their childish fun. Most of all, he likes seeing the pure joy on Jeno’s face returned. Even after three hundred years it has yet to grow old. The day Jeno came strolling into the fountain garden down the hill from their home, arm in arm with the almost infuriatingly charming man he came to know as Jaemin, is forever ingrained in his memory. The happiness, the calm and content, utter love in his face was beautiful and Jaehyun knew then that his little brother had found what he so sorely wished for himself. A best friend, and the love of his life. He can only watch and hope that Jaemin never turns as fickle as other gods are prone to be, but three hundred years has proven him that might very well not be the case. 

“Jaemin,” he calls and is immediately greeted with a winning smile. “Who was it that deified you again?” He asks not because he has forgotten, but in the hope that hearing it from Jaemin’s lips once more might shed some light on why it came to be.

“Taeil!” Jaemin exclaims, caught up in the laughter and loud humor of his friends, “said he owed someone a favour.” 

Jaehyun smiles back at him before his eyes land on the slowly approaching figure of Johnny in the distance. He waves, but make no move to leave his comfortable perch. 

Taeil, as a legitimate son of Zeus and Hera, has the power to deify mortals at his own will, but why he did so with Jaemin is a mystery to him. 

_it colours memories in a different shade,_

_and good is bad and bad is worse._

_it twists your perception of the past,_

_and poisons your approach of the future._

_it indulges._

“This is dark for you, peaches,” Johnny’s voice next to his ear startles him so much he almost drops his book. It sounds worried, words layered with a sigh, and Johnny’s hand in the middle of his back is a warm, heavy weight. 

“It’s been eight-hundred years, when are you going to let go of that nickname?” he asks as a diversion, and Johnny lets him have it, if only because of their young company. 

“Maybe if you stuff your face with so many blueberries you get sick, I might start calling you that instead!”

“Blueberries doesn’t have the same ring to it!” Jeno laughs loudly, only to lose his footing in the slippery syrup and falling on his butt like Chenle. Johnny chuckles along with the rest of them, his wild energy matching theirs, and bounds around the large barrels to lift Jeno back on his feet.

“I’m pretty sure Taeyong said no genitals in the juice barrels, at least he did to me,” he laughs teasingly and hoists Jeno out of the barrel all together, leaving him stumbling in the grass once he is put down. “Now get out of here, your hard work is much appreciated!” 

Chenle dances around the tall god, pulling Jisung along by the hand as he sings and yodels and giggles in his childish, nymphian way, and before Jaehyun knows it, all four of them have disappeared like they were never there. Taking the light and laughter with them.

“Hey peaches,” Johnny goads, his warm, woodsy timbre both comforting and foreboding. Jaehyun doesn’t want to _talk_ . Doesn’t think there is any need to _talk_. He’s fine. 

Johnny sighs, his footsteps a mere whisper in the grass as he retraces his steps to Jaehyun’s side, and the quiet is so loud in his ears after the cacophony that preceded it.

“I don’t want to chase you away, but would you mind leaving me and Taeyong alone? I kind of have something important to discuss with him,” Johnny says instead of what he really wants to say, and Jaehyun is grateful. 

“Of course,” he says, hurrying to gather his things to drown out the rest of Johnny’s concerning words. It’s the same as he always says these days, anyway. _Will you be alright? I don’t want to leave you alone. Make sure to eat a proper meal._

“Good luck,” he says, an off-hand comment over his shoulder as he climbs the overgrown balustrade and makes his way into the forest enclosing Taeyong’s vineyard. 

The silence of the trees is all-consuming, so heavy and present it echoes in Jaehyun’s head. He wonders if everyone experiences the thick sycamore forest this way, or if he carries the solitude around with him. 

How long has he been like that, weighed down by dark thoughts and grey eyes that only saw colour with the help of his little brother’s childish laugh? 

He doesn’t know, only remembers how it came to him one day, slipping over his skin and between his fingers like a morning mist, when Doyoung was the furthest away from him he had ever been. Every day that’s passed since only intensified the feeling, and exposed the growing distance of emotion in his heart. Jaehyun can only write of what he feels, so what does he write when the things he feels are invisible even to his own mind? What can he do but delve into the dark pit and revel in what the fates have deemed justifiable to afford him? Johnny _would_ think it dark; Johnny who is made of only sunshine and the dahlia blossoms growing abundant in his mother’s garden. Jaehyun never expected him to understand. 

It’s a long walk, Jaehyun counts every step he takes, until the trees shrink back and make way for lengths upon lengths of pink carnations curving around him in his favourite garden. He wonders if their pink is still as luminescent, like the dusting of an embarrassed flush on Doyoung’s cheeks whenever he caught onto how Jaehyun was teasing him. It always took him a while, everything but Jaehyun was so serious in his world.

There is giggling to his right, a particularly large cluster of carnations shiver and the sweet giggling sounds again and it is a brush of paint over the world, lighting it up and putting a smile on Jaehyun’s face. Dropping to his knees in the dry soil he crawls quickly into the flower world, catching one giggling cherub and then another before he is toppled over by the girls now screeching with high-pitched laughter. For a second he can see nothing, but also so much more than he ever does these days. He sees bright red hair, braided to perfection, he sees the pale green of summer light dresses and the carnation pink of Doyoung’s blushing cheeks. And then the girls are lifted off him one after the other, by their father who is laughing louder than any of them. 

“You’re going to trample him into the dirt and then we’ll have Jaehyun shaped flowers instead!” Yuta exclaims, tossing his daughters like they weigh nothing into the air, catching them in his sure embrace. 

“That would be pretty flowers,” one of the twins say, before giggling and hiding her face in the sheer outer layer of her skirts. Yuta sends him a look overflowing with amusement as he cups the back of his daughter’s head while putting the other girl back on her feet. 

“It sure would, Kasumi,” he says and Jaehyun makes a note to himself of her single long braid and silently thanks Yuta. He can never tell the girls apart; they are as similar as two drops of water with their round faces and blinding smiles. 

“Do you think you can find Uncle Jaehyun’s house?” Yuta asks them, looking more at Minato than Kasumi and as expected the little girl with her hair braided on top of her head hesitates for only a second before taking her sister’s hand and pulling her along to the garden gate. 

“C’mon Kasumi, I got ya,” she says and Jaehyun watches them walk, the fingers of both girls outstretched to touch the soft petals of the flowers as they pass between them. 

“Uhum,” Yuta clears his throat quietly, and he is sticking his elbow out for Jaehyun to hold onto and it’s so Yuta, and also so sweet and somewhat domestic that Jaehyun can’t help but smile while he longs for this picture to be real. 

He had left the window open that morning, and there are birds balanced on the woodcarved settee pushed against the wall under it. Bluebirds who sing upon their arrival and fly around the girls’ heads before escaping to the sky. 

Kasumi and Minato lean over the ledge to look after them and Yuta holds onto the backs of their dresses so they don’t tip into the garden below. Jaehyun remembers Yuta being that reckless, all the time and everywhere, if there was something to try he would do it, regardless the risk. He wonders if all that audacity was transferred from him to his girls on the day of their birth, or if Yuta simply found something that was more important than chasing the thrill.

Jaehyun makes lemon water for the girls and pours peach wine for him and Yuta, and he allows himself to revel in the sound of children playing and relaxes to the feel of Yuta’s fingers in his hair.

“I want this,” he murmurs, a mere breath of sound, and Yuta hums wordlessly, untangling the braid he made of Jaehyun’s hair and pulling all of it over one shoulder.

“You can’t have kids with Doyoung,” he says quietly, hesitantly, his fingers gently holding the back of Jaehyun’s neck and it is an intentional replica of what Jaehyun told him centuries before. What Yuta’s intentions are however, he doesn’t want to know.

Instead he turns a wide-eyed gaze at the older god, lips moving in the search for words to fit the revelation that he has not been as covert about his affections as he has always believed.

“How do you know-” “About you and Doyoung?” Yuta laughs and slips closer on the cushions so they are pressed together from hip to shoulder. “You talked about him once, it was only the one time and you might not even remember, but I do. I remember I was so jealous of him.” A sound escapes Jaehyun’s lips, an involuntary spasm that reverberates through his entire body.

“Not because you were in love with _him_ ,” Yuta giggles quietly into his hand, his shoulder shaking against Jaehyun’s. “But because of _how much_ you love him. I’ve always wanted someone to love me like that. The intensity of your feelings for him was so strong it made me feel like I could love him too, simply by hearing you say his name.”

As if on cue, Kasumi and Minato come running, piling into Yuta’s lap one after the other, begging for a story. 

“Anyway, I don’t know what happened between you two, but there is no reason you should cut yourself off the way you have,” Yuta were always brutal with his kindness, “no man is worth that. But you love him, so I guess, go get him.”

Yuta’s words hit him like a lightning bolt to the head; it’s the first time in a long time any of his friends have been honest with him, he realises. He _has_ cut himself off; from his friends and his family and the things he loved, when his only intention was to cut himself free from the memory of Doyoung. He can only surmise that Doyoung was more entangled in his life than he ever realised. Yuta was right, he doesn’t remember talking to him about Doyoung. So then, who else has he divulged himself to unintentionally?

It doesn’t matter. Yuta was right about more things, because Jaehyun knows that no matter how hard he has wished them away, his ill-advised feelings for the tempestuous son of Ares have gone nowhere. 

  


_there is no end to its capabilities,_

_it can soften a stone heart,_

_and draw it red and beating from its cavity_

_and crush it in the soil._

_a paradoxical enigma._

_it is not two-sided, but never-ending,_

_like a three branch with little saplings_

_reaching and growing_

_reaching and growing_

Traveling through the in-between realm to reach the mortal world is an experience all on its own, yet the second his feet touch the sandy shores of the continent below all memories of his journey are wiped from his mind. He only knows he walked off the edge of their divine land and ended up in this place. The air feels weird, oppressive and heavy in his lungs, and the salty smell of the ocean is so strong in his nose, mixing with the cloying sweet scents of flowers somewhere far off. It’s so loud, rushing waves and surging voices and birds squawking in his ear. He covers his ears with his palms, pressing them tight against his head to block out the noise. It’s nothing like what he had expected. It’s so much worse.

He knows where to find Doyoung, but he doesn’t know what he’ll find with him. He had always thought Doyoung was off fighting in wars, or participating in petty feuds to sate his need for combat; he may be different to Jaehyun but he is still a son of war after all. What he would never have imagined, was to find him in peaceful times, but that is exactly where he is. 

The fishing village is small; a round town square facing out to the sea and a scattering of huts on the outskirts is all that makes it up. A quay floats on the water and he counts ten small boats moored to it, and one open space in the middle. Doyoung is nowhere to be seen, but Jaehyun can feel him. Like a magnet he is drawn to him, through the town square and the blatantly staring mortals; Jaehyun doesn’t doubt they know who he is, or at the very least what. He passes the very last hut on the other side of the village from where he came and the path leads him through a weather-shaped arch in the narrow rocky hill behind it. He expects to see even more long stretches of yellow grass, but the image is broken by a towering oak tree, and at its base, a pond. It’s their special spot. A pale imitation for sure, but it’s the spot Doyoung chose and Jaehyun knows what that means. 

He curls his silken overcoat into his hands to pull it from the ground as he starts the climb over rocks and wet sand before he can slip his feet into soft, damp grass. Doyoung sits, still as a statue, with his feet dipping in the pond. If he didn’t know better, Jaehyun would say his presence has gone unnoticed, but as closely as he feels Doyoung’s presence, surely Doyoung feels his just as acutely. It is a sense of quiet in the middle of a storm, a safe harbour where his head can rest, free of the loud sensations accompanying his foray into the mortal world that shoot pain through his body. The only sound he hears is the rustle of grass under his feet, the only scent that reaches his nose comes from the single stem of pink carnation in Doyoung’s hand, it’s peppery scent hanging heavy in the air between them.

A surge of wind forces its way between them, rustling Doyoung’s short hair, and when it leaves, Jaehyun’s breath goes with it. Doyoung is beautiful, as delicate as the flower he holds so gently with his fingers, and as steadfast and sturdy as the oak tree at his back. 

“Doyoung,” he calls, but even with his breath back in his lungs he can find no other words to say. His mind is silent, unable to do anything but take in the visage before him. Doyoung turns his head, a silent plea for _something_ in his eyes before it is blown away by the next gust of wind from the sea. He has so many things he wants to say, things he needs Doyoung to know, that he has waited a millennia to voice, and he won’t back down now. Not when Doyoung has made himself a home in their memories even so far away from him. And while they won’t come now, he has perfected them for years and years, on more paper than he can even say. So he recites them to Doyoung, tear-choked and longing for him, while he wobbles unsteadily to fall in the grass at Doyoung’s side. 

“ _I see no mountains, but the shape of your back. I feel no water smooth as the fall of your hair. I know no warmth as rival the blaze in your eyes. I feel no air ... like the brush of your breath when you say my name. I fe_ \- do you need me to continue?” he gasps, overcome by feeling and the tears clogging his throat. Doyoung is silent still, watching him with his blank eyes shining in the bright light of the sun and Jaehyun can’t read him at all.

“I write because that’s what I know how to do, and I got good … at pretending like I knew what I was writing about. But now it’s ... I _love_ you because I don’t know how not to, and I am _sick_ of pretending that I don’t.” His words are cut off with his breath as Doyoung surges forward, more animated than Jaehyun has ever seen him, and this time, when Doyoung stops just before they connect, it is only to tilt Jaehyun’s head to the side and brush his hair away from his face so nothing can get in the way of their perfect, utterly perfect first kiss. 

Like a declaration of love, wordless and all-consuming, Doyoung’s kiss hits him deep inside, clearing a path for itself in the dark haze of Jaehyun’s being to touch his heart. To pour life into its hollowed form and bit by bit pump his body full of it.

It’s a mutual exchange, Jaehyun feels it in the way Doyoung’s hand grows surer on his face, how his body rises towards him with a warmth and openness the son of Ares has never before allowed himself to show. Jaehyun feels like he knows Doyoung better after one kiss than he did after a thousand years of stilted conversations and mutual pining. 

“I’m glad you came,” Doyoung says when they finally part, smiling and tangling his hands in Jaehyun’s long, wavy hair.

“There’s nowhere I would rather be,” he assures, the one truth he has never been able to hide from. He pulls Doyoung close, familiarising himself with the short hairs on his head and the feel of his tongue in his mouth. And they topple into the grass, gripping at each other and pulling on clothes as the need to love with their bodies drives them to be as close as they possibly can. Doyoung is a heaven sent force, as nimble between his legs as he is on the sandy arena floor, and Jaehyun finally understands how loving with your body is different from having sex when Doyoung is inside him and looking down at him like he is something precious. 

And he knew how to love with his mind the day he decided having Doyoung was worth more than anything else, be it his mother’s approval or children of his own, all of it pales in the face of the most essential source of life he knows. And with it, he allows his heart to love to its full potential, meeting Doyoung in the middle as they weld their futures together with no more doubt. 

“Why did you cut your hair?” he asks hours later, with Doyoung’s heavy head resting on his chest and their fingers tangled like vines between them.

“The ponytail is a warrior’s symbol. I lost the right to bear it the day I attacked you,” Doyoung’s voice is quiet in the night air and Jaehyun whines wordlessly when he feels him grow tense in his arms.

“Is that why you’ve been here all this time?” he fusses, turning on his side and pulling at Doyoung until they are face to face and he can look into his beautiful, dark eyes glinting with the stars in the sky.

“It’s not so bad when you’re here,” Doyoung shrugs, trying to pretend like he hasn’t been punishing himself for the last three hundred years. Jaehyun can’t even imagine it; three hundred years of the cacophony of intrusive noises and smells that after a mere handful of seconds aimed to give him a headache. 

“Is it my forgiveness you need? Because I forgive you,” he says and smiles into the kiss Doyoung gives him.

“I was jealous,” Doyoung admits, averting his eyes to the pale skin of Jaehyun’s shoulder, lifting a hand to brush over its curve. “I saw you with the water god and I hated that he could have the one thing I wanted.”

“So it was you! I thought someone was there, but I didn’t see anyone!” His exclamation draws a chuckle from Doyoung’s lips and the sound washes over him like a breath of fresh air, so unfamiliar and already so loved. They fall into silence again, foreheads resting together as they share the air between them.

“I love singing,” Doyoung whispers after a long time of basking in the moment and Jaehyun is taken aback at the honest vulnerability in his eyes. He really didn’t know Doyoung before this day, not nearly as well as he thought he did at least, but he still managed to love him. 

“It’s what I want to do, but it’s not done so instead I got really good at what I’m supposed to do, just so I could forget about the rest.”

Jaehyun pulls himself on top of Doyoung, cupping his head and kissing him firmly as he searches for the right words to say. Doyoung moans into his mouth and holds him close with hands on his hips and Jaehyun almost forgets what they were talking about as his body wakes yet again with excitement. 

“You can do whatever you want, I’ll be there to ensure that,” he says when he manages to pull away for more than a second. He hates that Doyoung has been forced to live his life in a way he didn’t want, that they can be so bound by blood and obligation that they would deny themselves happiness. 

“Anything I want, huh?” Doyoung says and the mischievous lilt to his voice turns Jaehyun’s mood upside down, paints a smile on his face and pulls a laugh from his throat before Doyoung even moves. And then he does and suddenly instead of laughing Jaehyun is choking on salty water as he is rolled into the pond that is no pond at all, but an offshoot from the sea behind them, probably made from underground grottos.

As quickly as he was dunked under, he is pulled to the surface gasping for air and still laughing. Doyoung is there, in the water, crowding him and using his advantage in postition to push Jaehyun back into the hard stone wall and its soft grassy ledge, pressing their bodies close together. Jaehyun holds his breath in anticipation for Doyoung to join their bodies for the third or fourth time, he doesn't even remember, but it doesn't happen. 

Instead he winds his arms over Jaehyun’s shoulders and presses a kiss under his ear before he opens his mouth and sings softly just for him. Pressed together in the pleasantly warm water, in this special spot, not a pale imitation at all, but an extension of what they already had, Jaehyun closes his eyes and basks in the most beautiful voice he has ever heard as Doyoung sings all the words he never said before. And it is right, as nothing else could be.

For so long Jaehyun wrote about love without a clue of what it meant; wrote about beauty and devotion, and jealousy and loss, learning little by little with every step he took, with Doyoung his oblivious teacher. 

And now he knows, love is the way Doyoung looks at him, how he kisses the bridge of his nose, how he sings beautiful melodies in his ear, how he feels in the circle of his arms, how he makes his heart race and rest in ease at the same time.

Love is Doyoung.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And to the person who left his prompt, thank you so much!!! I loved writing this and I hope it didn't disappoint!


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